


The Songbird and the Gilded Cage

by Sandentwins



Category: Phantom of the Paradise (1974)
Genre: Collars, Contracts, Hand Jobs, M/M, Master/Pet, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-19
Updated: 2018-02-20
Packaged: 2019-03-17 11:23:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13657989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sandentwins/pseuds/Sandentwins
Summary: To be a bird trapped in a dark shoebox, or a chained pet on display? Winslow has made his choice.





	1. Reading the Fine Print isn't Always Enough

Despite his common sense when it came to reading the fine print, Winslow's never been smart enough to think twice.  
As he was being led down the shadowed corridors of the Paradise, the aching tingle in his gut wouldn't stop nagging at him, telling him that something here wasn't fully right. The voicebox was weighing heavy on his chest, dragging his upper body down with each step and threatening to fall down from its hastily-patched strapping with every breath. The masked man was holding it close with an arm, fearing it would come loose any second now. Still keeping his head down, he'd occasionally glance up with his one good eye, peeking through the hole in the mask and only seeing Swan's barely-lit back among walls and doors. It seemed like he's been walking for an hour now, and he was starting to fear for his life.  
The day couldn't have gone worse, he thought to himself. After managing to re-enter the Paradise and put on that ridiculous disguise, and failing to kill Swan once more, and having to bear that voice – his voice – as his own, he had no clue of how things could get worse. But he knew Swan, he knew this man's tricks and ruses, and he knew there would be something worse than his current fate.  
Yet Winslow was keeping silent, having no strength or interest to talk. What could he say? Would he complain, break into tears? Would he plead to Swan, insult him? Would he try to make a witty comment? That last one was unlikely, he's never been one for wits. He wasn't one for thinking, that's how he got himself in this mess in the first place. A mess he was starting to grow afraid of.  
Swan led him through another series of doors and corridors, each more shadowed and remote than the rest. He knew the place fairly well, and probably had a map of all secret doors and passageways etched into his mind. Here in this place, there was no escaping him, for every word would reach him somehow, and no room would be safe from his all-seeing eyes. They entered another room after a seemingly endless time, and Winslow's eye had a hard time readjusting to the light.  
It was a room similar to what could be found at the Swanage, in that a large bed took most of it. Curtains and cushions gave it a warm yet strange atmosphere; there was a weird smell in the air, that made Winslow's hair rise on end under his suit. He tried to ignore it, as Swan gestured him forward. 

"Sit.", he ordered.

As wary as he was, Winslow obeyed, knowing he couldn't escape from it. He sat on the bed, surprised by how soft it felt. He's never known a bed so soft in all his life, and for a single moment, his distaste against Swan rose in peaks. How many artists like him did he strip off of their work to pay for all these luxuries? The mere thought of Swan's parties of lust and exuberance being paid for by his music made Winslow's blood boil; a low grumble escaped his voicebox, warbled and mechanical.  
And Swan noticed it.

“Now, now, Winslow.”, he said in a disgustingly soothing voice. “Let's not be angry, shall we? I brought you here for a reason, after all.”

He had the contract in his hands, a block of parchment-like paper whose size alone never failed to impress and frighten Winslow. He flipped through the first pages, skipping to one paragraph that made a grin appear on his lips.

“Now. If you remember correctly reading, and I recall you did, you may remember the transportation clause I told you about.”

The one that gave the party of the second part full control over the party of the first part's body, bone, blood and flesh. That one sentence gave him a headache when he first read it.

“Get to the point.”, Winslow gritted between his teeth, feeling the scam coming up.

“Now, now, don't get so hasty.”, Swan chuckled in his gross, patronizing manner. “All I am saying is, by signing this contract, you fully surrendered yourself to me and my use. Do not try to deny it, you read it and knew what it implied.”

Of course he read it. Of course he knew! Of course he was stupid enough to sign, trapped like a dead rat as he was then!

“Where are you getting at?”, Winslow hissed in impatience. 

“Where I am getting at, Winslow, is that you now belong to me; soul, body and mind. And I am in the legal right to do whatever I want to do with you.”

He leaned forward, enough to make Winslow try to pull back from his glass-concealed stare.

“And what I want you to do now, is to take off your mask.”

Winslow's breath stopped in his throat. He stopped moving, staring at that monster of a person, without another sound but a startled gasp.

“Come on.”, Swan pressed, his smile not fading from his face. “I've seen what you look like. Take it off, come on.”

But seeing Winslow's complete lack of a reaction, he pushed it again.

“If you do as I say and behave, you will be rewarded. Now take it off.”

It was hard for Winslow to start moving again, but somehow his hands found a way to the plastic helm that hid the world from his hideous face. Still under the man's sweetened grin, he took it off, letting his blond mane flow out. The air stung against his wound, against the burnt and blistering flesh of his right cheek, and made his bad eye itch horribly. He tried to blink it, but what remained of his eyelid muscles only gave a faint twitch, that he couldn't even visually notice.

“You're not a handsome young man anymore, Winslow.”, Swan commented with a voice that could have sounded sorry. “But that doesn't make you a definitive loss.”

Winslow tried to turn his head, hide his scars under his hair. Swan then reached out a hand to touch at his face, and Winslow flinched a little. Then again, it only lasted for a moment, before Swan's very strange charm acted again, and his gloved hand touched to the burnt and molten flesh over his cheekbone without a problem, turning Winslow's head in his direction.

“Look at you. Look at what you've become. What a poor, helpless soul, in a poor, helpless body.”

His voice was sweet, entrancing. It spoke in tunes and tones that made Winslow's mind feel hazy, so much that he could swear it had a soothing effect of sorts, that made him forget about being exposed for him to see, to pry at his intimate wounds.

“I could help you.”, he continued. “I could make you into a fine young man again. I could try to repair the damage.”

Winslow looked at him with distrust, trying to turn his head away.

“Why would you do that?”, he garbled out. “What would you gain out of it?”

“I wouldn't gain anything, no; but you, my dear...oh, you have so much to gain.”

His touch became caressing, his hand cupping whatever cheek he had left, almost cradling his face in his fingers.

“Think of it, Winslow. I could help you in ways you cannot fathom. I could give you much more than a locked room and ink for your quills. Wouldn't you like that?”

Winslow couldn't help but consider the offer. After the accident and his subsequent attempt at terrorism, he's lost all sense of humanity. He was no more but a mask to hide in, so much that he would forget there once was a man underneath. And the thought of recovering that part of himself, to reclaim the humanity he's slowly lost in prison from torture to torture, filled him in that moment with a strange positive emotion he hadn't felt in forever.  
He hesitated, aware of the consequences a deal with Swan would bring. But he nodded all the same, and the man grinned again.

“Very well.”

He stood from the bed, and Winslow sat up, wondering what would happen now. Swan headed to a side of the room, opening a wardrobe of sorts built in the wall; but Winslow couldn't see what was in it, for Swan's back was blocking the view. When he came back, he was holding something dark and small.

“Here is what I offer you, Winslow. You will have whatever you wish of me, and I won't refuse you any favors. But in return...”

He showed him the object: it was a black leather band, decorated with silvery buckles, that looked very well like a belt or a pet collar. Winslow didn't understand at first, and looked up at Swan in confusion.

“In return, Winslow, you will become my pet.”

This time, the composer made a very odd noise, that translated his confusion, shock and startle at the same time. His...pet? What did that mean? Would he be turned into an animal, put in a cage and chained to a leash? But Swan's only reaction to the thoughts that raced through his mind, was a faint laughter.

“Well, this will seem very strange at first. But do not worry, for I will guide you through this.”

He sat on the bed, so close that Winslow feared for his personal space.

“Remember, Winslow. You granted me control of yourself, and you will be rewarded for it if you listen to me.”

Somehow, Winslow found his paralyzed throat to work again, just enough for his voicebox to decipher.

“What do you mean, 'pet'? What will you do to me?”

“Nothing complicated, really. I have no use for one that behaves like a literal animal. No, what I want of you is merely the obedience of an animal. To put it simply...”

He looked at him in such a way that Winslow thought his eyes were staring right through him.

"...I want you to surrender yourself to me. To do what you're told without questioning it. To relinquish control of your own will to me, and me only.”

“And what tells you I will do that?”, Winslow replied, panic barely apparent in his voice.

“Well, first of all, you don't have the choice. You signed a contract, and you knew what you were getting into.”

His voice became deeper, more caressing. The odd effect of imposed tranquility washed again over Winslow.

“Second, it will be much better of a life than what you got so far. Think about these nights spent in a cold, damp cell, for months on end. Think about the noise and the cries and the voices of wardens. Now look at this, look at all of this, and tell me this wouldn't be better.” 

He gestured at the luxurious bedroom around them.

“You're a smart man, Winslow. I trust you will make the right choice.”

He put the collar in his hands. Winslow felt it: it was of good craft, with a ring to hook a nametag or a leash to. He stared at it for a moment, unsure of what to say, and looked up at Swan, desperately seeking answers without admitting it.

“I will let you one day to think about it. Choose wisely, because either way, you cannot leave your fate.”

He turned around and retreated, leaving the room. When Winslow heard the sound of lock and keys, he rushed to the door and tried to open it, but it was too late: he was locked in, the door refusing to move no matter how much he pounded against it. Deciding not to break his hands over it, he gave up, and dropped down to the floor, looking at the room around him.  
It was better than the dark recording studio, for sure. But he knew it would come for a price, a price he wasn't ready to pay. And as Swan said it himself, he was trapped either way. He looked down at the collar, and sighed heavily.  
He's never been smart enough to think twice.


	2. Instinct against Reason

The collar wasn't cold by any means, but the contact of it against Winslow's skin made him shiver a little. Swan's agile hands worked the buckle so that its grip over its new owner's neck would be felt, yet unable to harm. He tucked the tail away neatly, and turned the result a little so that the leash ring would be at the front, as if awaiting the nametag that wasn't there yet.  
His work done, Swan took a step back, admiring his work. Kneeling in front of him, Winslow had stripped the topmost part of his leather suit (which honestly displayed the man's liking of bondage quite well already), showing off his neck and collarbone. Showing his bony flesh and pale skin, like the preview of a ghostlike body, result of a poor life enhanced by starvation and lack of sunlight typical of Swan's choice prisons. A whole side of his neck and jaw have been taken in the record press incident, burning part of his vocal chords and cracking some bones in the process. But for now, Winslow's neck was wrapped in the black leather of the pet collar, which fit very snugly on it. And it was quite a spectacle, to be fair.   
The fallen musician didn't know what to think of it. It was an odd feeling in itself, and he didn't like this impression of constantly being on the brink of choking. Wearing a collar as a whole, and the whole Swan's pet ordeal, were very weird as well. He didn't know what to think of it, to be honest, and he failed to see what was in it that Swan could wish of him. But somehow, the sight of Winslow being on his knees, collared and silent was enough to please him, seeing his smug smile. How Winslow _hated_ that smile! How he hated knowing Swan had superiority over him! And most of all, how he hated, loathed, despised the idea that he brought it all upon himself with a signature of his bloodstained pen!

“You're dashing, Winslow.”, Swan noted. “This suits you very well.”

Winslow didn't reply, save for a grumble that rose in his mangled throat. He sent Swan a dark glare filled with hate, and got replied with faint laughter.

“Dashing _and_ adorable. You couldn't get any better.”

He reached out a hand to pet him like a dog, but Winslow barred his metal teeth and threatened to bite; to which Swan replied with a slight smack on his head.

“Oh, none of that now, Winslow. From now on, you need to be obedient.”

“What tells you I will obey?”, he snarled in a low voice.

“Well, I know you not only signed the contract in the first place, but surrendered yourself to me by accepting to wear this collar, and all it stands for. You will not deny you accepted to put it on, right?”

Winslow tried to say something, but looked down. He did spend the night thinking, pondering his options. Choosing between the dark of the recording studio or the soft light of the secret bedroom. Trying on the collar without putting it on all the way, afraid as he was. And eventually, deciding to accept Swan's offer, if only to feel like he could get out of this trap.  
He couldn't go back on his words, now. On that moment, he was filled with a powerlessness like he's never felt before. And Swan knew it.

“You're a good boy, Winslow. You're very good.” 

He pat his shoulder gently, even though the touch made Winslow tense up a little. 

“We shall start with your training, then. Get on the bed.”

Training. The idea was very strange at least, and creepy at most. And yet, fearing punishment, Winslow swallowed his pride and obeyed, sitting on the soft bed. The sheets were very silky and soft under his touch, the mattress a little bouncy. It gave him some rebound when Swan sat next to him, looking at Winslow's bare face with greater attention.  
Winslow looked away at first, but Swan's hand once again turned his face to look at him. He felt exposed under his tinted gaze, invaded by such proximity between them. He knew Swan had some sort of particular charm at his advantage, some irresistible trait of his that made him very popular among young people in search of an ideal lover figure. And with all the mystery there was around his persona, being able to see Swan's place from this close was almost like blasphemy in some way.  
He wasn't perfectly handsome, Winslow thought. But he did have something to him, something youthful behind his aviators and outdated haircut. Something that wasn't unpleasant to look at, though he couldn't name it for the life of him.   
Slowly, Swan's fingers moved down to his pet's neck, caressing his collar teasingly, feeling the silvery seams. Winslow lifted his head a little to let him, while still being wary of his touch. He was afraid Swan would suddenly try to strangle him or tear at his wounded skin, and the apprehension made him tense; but nothing of the sort happened, and Swan's hand trailed around Winslow's neck without a problem or a hint of violence in his gestures. 

“Don't be so tense, my dear. I won't hurt you. Have I ever hurt you?”

Winslow was about to reply something, but his words didn't come out easily. Swan has never hurt him physically, even though he did scam him and frame him. The accident was Winslow's own fault and recklessness. If anything, _he_ was the one who put lives in danger, during his rampage at the Death Records offices, his prison outbreak or his latest bombing attempt. 

“No.”, he admitted in a sad warble. 

“Then all's good.”

Without Winslow knew how, he found both of Swan's hands around his neck, touching to his collar; then they spread out, resting on his collarbone, fingers circling over his shoulders, slipping under the black suit. Winslow whimpered a little, unfamiliar with this kind of touch, but another glance shushed him. He didn't really understand what was going on, and he was a little scared of it, but he tried not to make it visible.  
The hands then moved down again, to the exposed parts of his chest. Winslow's heart was beating nervously, of both fear and something he didn't exactly know, so much it could be felt with only a mere touch to his chest. The voicebox was in the way, preventing the suit's zipper from going any lower; Swan considered it for a moment, thoughtful.

“You will need better clothes than this, I am afraid.”

Winslow made a noise of refusal. This suit was the only garment he's found that could hide most, if not all of his deformities. Plus it was suited to his height better than any thrift shop clothes he's ever worn in his life; the numerous belts and buckles also allowed for the voicebox to be strapped to his chest with ease. He shook his head, wanting to get his point across, hands clinging to the weight on his chest.

“Oh, but you will need to.”, Swan insisted. “Don't worry about your synthetizer, we will find something. But for now, you should take it off.”

Winslow shook his head again, and Swan's tone got a little more stern.

“You must do as I say, remember? Now take it off. Take it off or there will be consequences.”

That scared him right off the bat. Not wanting to risk getting in trouble, Winslow had no choice but to obey, carefully undoing the two belts that held his voicebox to his chest. It hurt a little when he unplugged the node on his lower neck, which was used to record what little was left of his original voice. But after a minute or two of trying, the heavy box was removed from his chest, and he felt his breathing ease a little, now that it was ridden of the mechanical weight that compressed his lungs. Swan's hands were quick to pull down the zipper of his suit, revealing more of his chest, showing his ribcage and nipples.   
Winslow shivered a little when his fingers trailed over his bare skin, making his hair rise. He felt vulnerable without that piece of equipment to shield him, leaving him exposed to Swan's perverse touch. He tried to look away, remaining bashful, and Swan's response was to pin him to the mattress, forcing Winslow to look at him.

“It's very rude to look away, don't you know? Look at your master in the eyes, you'll already be much more poilte.”

_I don't want to be polite with you_ , Winslow raged internally. _I want to get out of here!_ But no matter how much he thought and raged about his situation, he couldn't regain the mental upper hand, and Swan could have it as much as he wanted. And he was relishing in it.  
Swan's hands moved down to Winslow's stomach, parting the sides of the jumpsuit even more. He trailed along the creases of malnourishment and forced starvation, felt along his sides and hipbone, made the poor man shiver and grow goosebumps under his fingers. Winslow whimpered a little, the sound muted and deformed in his throat, as Swan's lips pressed against his raised flesh, his nose touching to his stomach. How he wished it would end already! He wouldn't bear it any longer than he absolutely needed to! Alas, Swan didn't look like he was going to stop here, only continuing lower to a point where Winslow didn't dare to keep his eyes open. He felt the rest of the suit slip away, and the uncanny sensation of cold air all over his body. He peeked from between his shut eyelids and saw the suit had been discarded, resting on the ground like a pile of rags.

“A good pet shouldn't bother with clothes. From now on, I will keep you warm.”

Swan's voice was hypnotic as usual, intoxicating in its tone and melody. It could almost make Winslow submit to its will, if he weren't trying so hard to fight that delightful sensation that'd tingle inside him when his master would speak. He realized he was naked, exposed for him to see, and his cheeks got heated as a faint layer of pink spread over his body like a fire. The way Swan's hands were touching him was...inappropriate in so, so many ways. It was like poison, an ice-cold touch that would make him shiver and feel gross, more than he's ever been; and yet somehow the thought turned him on in ways he hadn't conceived. He kept his eyes closed, trying to fight that feeling by hissing a little, and Swan kept going at it, running his hands over him and touching him in his most intimate parts, making him feel both shame and excitation. It was new, it was foreign, for Winslow had never known the touch of love, and while he's always imagined what it would be like he'd never have pictured himself this, pictured this situation where Swan would be half-riding him and touching him all over and suddenly there's a _tongue_ over him and it's trailing dangerously close to-  
…it stopped. Against Winslow's skin, Swan's chuckle resounded like a vibration, as the man raised his head and looked down at his pet with a sadistic smile.

“Why, you're starting to get eager there, don't you?”

Winslow didn't understand it at first, until he dared to look down and realized he was half-erect. He darted his eyes away, refusing to look there, and that's when he felt Swan's fingers against this sensitive part of himself.

“I suppose I should give you a taste of what I expect...take it as a welcome gift, my lovely.”

Winslow didn't want to ask what he meant by that, but he had no need to: for Swan's hand wrapped around his member and gave it a firm stroke, making Winslow gasp out for air.  
He started working slowly, pressing on him but not grabbing, using his fingers more than his palm to caress him. Winslow tried to fight it, to think about something else, but it was very hard to ignore the feeling that was growing in his loins, along with his hardness. He felt powerless to resist it, and for a moment he considered letting go of reason and allowing Swan to have this way; but if he did so, he'd abandon the last figments of his will to fight, and he didn't want this. And Swan felt that reluctance, felt that Winslow obviously didn't want to let go. His only reaction to that wordless statement was to stroke faster, drawing more faint noises out of him. Without wanting to, Winslow bucked his hips upwards, driven by a purely animal reflex.   
Swan took it as an invitation, now using both his fingers and palm to touch him, to caress him and stroke him, making Winslow's eye flutter in delight. It felt surprisingly _good_ , better than what he's expected at first. He bit his lip without minding his metal teeth, the last few grasps on his will slipping away, and Swan's other hand trailed down his stomach, caressing there for a long moment, before touching to his crotch and hesitating a little before grabbing his balls. Winslow's never been touched _there_ , and the feeling was oddly good; he gasped some more, his instinct and reason fighting for dominance as his owner's gestures got faster and faster again. With each thrust of his hand, each fondle, Winslow could feel that grasp leaving him little by little – until Swan suddenly squeezed both hands, and Winslow couldn't stop the feeling from skyrocketing, the heat in his groin reaching new heights as his seed suddenly spilled out of him, and the last bits of his resilience finally gave way.  
Swan continued to jerk him off, slowing down until Winslow was eased out of it. He was panting, his body feeling oddly warm, and his loins were tingling, pulsing like a second heartbeat that'd make him feel just how much that was good. Swan smirked at the sight in front of him, of Winslow sprawled on the bed with a stomach covered in cum, exhausted after merely five minutes of jerking him off. His own hand had some fluid on it, to his slight disgust; he touched his dirtied fingers to Winslow's mouth, feeling his warm and raspy breath.

“Clean it.”, he ordered.

Winslow was too dizzy to respond, and for a moment Swan thought he would disobey after being rewarded. But slowly, Winslow's tongue peeked out of his mouth, and licked at the semen on Swan's fingers, obviously having never tasted it and being put off by the taste. But Swan insisted, putting the tip of his fingers in Winslow's mouth, and the poor pet was too dazed to even think about biting, sucking his fingers clean.

“From now on, you will learn to do that. You'll please whoever comes your way, and I will teach you.”

Panting, sweating and pleased, Winslow didn't even think of proving him wrong. His will tried to come back, to make him fight it and resist; but at the memories of this pleasure, this intimacy, Winslow knew in his heart that it was already too late.


End file.
